


Stopping Behind

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-01
Updated: 2010-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not easy to face danger and death far from home, but it's even less easy for those left behind…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stopping Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Marigold's 12th Challenge in 2005. It is a kind of prequel to [Holly's Fortune](http://archiveofourown.org/works/89607), but works perfectly well on its own.

I should have known that it was deceptively simple. I should have guessed that things would go awry. But how was I to know how badly? How was I to know what the future would bring? How was I to know that they would succeed in their impossible task, whereas I, with my simple task, my oh so simple task, would fail? I couldn't know. Of course I couldn't. I realise that now.

But it was easy to imagine, as I stood in the porch blowing on my cold hands in the dawn light and watched them check the baggage, that they were the ones going towards danger and death. That I had the easy job – to stay behind and keep Crickhollow looking inhabited, to pretend to be Frodo even, for as long as I could, even if that was to be just a few days. Although even I thought that disguise wouldn't fly for very long, even if I did have some of his clothes – I wasn't called Fatty for nothing, you know. And Frodo has always been as slim as a willow switch.

Still. It was a reasonable plan, a good plan. And even when my dear cousins had made it to Crickhollow on the previous evening, with a breath of air curling chill about their necks, and tales of Black Riders on their lips, I didn't have an inkling of how things would go. How could I have? I do remember that a shiver ghosted across my shoulders when I opened the door to see Frodo's pale face gleaming at me out of the dark, but I can't honestly say it was a premonition. I've no Tookish tendencies to be having 'feelings' or any airy fairy nonsense of that sort – instead I thought that the evening was turning fairly nippy, I think, and then hurried them all inside.

It was a strange sort of evening, that last night in Crickhollow with us all together, before everything changed. I remember looking around at my best friends and being fearful for them, thinking of this final end to all the months of dissembling and plotting. It amazed me that Merry and Pippin could be so cheerful in the face of so much uncertainty, and that poor lad Sam, who was also going with them, well, my heart went out to him. Strong as an ox he might be, and loyal to a fault, and clever too, for all his country ways – well, it had been his careful spying that had kept us all informed after all – but despite all that, I felt sure he didn't really understand. He didn't really _know_.

But none of us knew then. I wonder if my friends would have still set out on their journey if they had known the future, whether they would have still embraced their fates with eyes wide open, or whether there would have been doubts and fears that night, instead of mushrooms and good cheer. And then I am glad that they did not, for that evening is a bright spot in my memory, a last happy time, for all its strangeness. Really, when I think about it, I find I only wish that I had the opportunity to relive those precious hours, and perhaps to take my path anew, the chance to choose again…

But let me think once more about that evening. I protested at Frodo's intention to take the path through the Old Forest, I remember. But I had always had a healthy and abiding fear of the foreign and the unknown, and at that time the Old Forest was as foreign and as strange a place as I could imagine. Not to mention that it had been my first trip across the Brandywine, not so long before, and I was already feeling nervous and uncomfortable in the outlandish territory of Buckland. Merry was a good sort of fellow, of course, and I'd known him for years besides, but those Bucklander types were odd sorts, I'd always been told, and there I was in among the heart of them. So I was already feeling a touch peculiar. It was no wonder I was worried for them, particularly after Frodo began talking about going off 'in an unexpected direction'. I still don't know why I protested so hard. The Old Forest was dangerous, yes, but a known sort of danger in many ways. I might have guessed that Merry had set foot in there before – it was just the sort of place those queer Brandybucks _would_ like to roam, I knew that. But I couldn't help it, my hair felt like it was standing on end, as though that chill air that Frodo had brought with him had curled itself about the back of _my_ neck this time.

But no-one listened to me. And I think that was just as well. After all, as I said, they succeeded in their task whereas I… Well. Let's just say that I did not. No-one has any luck in the Old Forest, that's what I declared that night, as though I knew what I was talking about. Luck? What would I know about luck, good or bad? I'm glad they didn't listen. Who knows what might have happened, if they had?

I remember the rest of the evening passed off tolerably well. Once the plan was made we could all pretend we were having a normal party, for the fire was warm, and the food was abundant, and there was plenty of singing. I'd forgotten what a sweet little voice Pippin had, it quite took me away from all these strange feelings, and the horrible yawning premonition that I wouldn't see any of them ever again. It was another thing I was mistaken about, but at least in this instance, I was very glad to be wrong.

That night, I dreamed. I recall it particularly because I'm not the sort of fellow who remembers his dreams very often, and even this one wasn't very clear. I was trapped somewhere, I think, and I couldn't get out, and there were screams. I knew somehow that if I could just make myself move, if I could force myself to make a light – strike a spark, kindle a flame – then _they_ would come for me and not for my friends, and I would save them. I would save them all. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. I was trapped and I could not make myself move, not even to lift my little finger… A horrible dream, really. Not at all restful. I was yawning long after Frodo woke me.

I wonder now, if it meant anything. Although, of course, now I wonder what any of it meant, as I watch the Shire returning to the untroubled happy land of my youth, and forgetting everything that happened, as though turning its back on those of us who… Well. I'm getting ahead of myself. I shouldn't do that.

So, even getting breakfast in the dawn light seemed almost dreamlike to me, in my half awake state, after the nightmares that had kept me from my rest. Even the cheerful clatter of the pans seemed muted and grey. I watched Merry for a bit as he cooked, then wandered aimlessly into the hall to find Frodo checking the packs that had been made up. He was frowning a little, I remember, and he was leaning down so that his hair had parted at the nape of his neck. It lay in shadow, and he looked so vulnerable crouching there, that as I watched I had a horrible urge to ask him not to go. To stay in the Shire where it was safe, and let someone else take on the job. I even opened my mouth to say something, the words crowding eagerly up behind my teeth, before I closed it again, and told myself not to be such a pessimist. I am glad now that I was silent, even if my one tangible contribution to their trip was to try and hide my doubts and fears.

Before we knew it, it was six o'clock, and time for them to start their journey. I didn't even ask, even when I was standing in the porch blowing on my cold fingers, I didn't even ask if I could come to see them off. It was understood that I should be there. It was right. I felt I owed them the company, at least as far as the Brandybuck's private entrance, whatever that might be. Even more, I felt I owed their families my remembrance of that last glimpse of their sons, a dreadfully morbid thought, which just shows you the sort of mood I was in, terribly un-hobbitlike really. But no-one argued, no-one even mentioned it, so perhaps I wasn't the only one who was feeling a little strange that morning.

I'll never forget that small journey. Just an hour's quiet ride on the outskirts of Buckland, but it means such a lot to me. Is that a silly thing to remember so clearly, given everything that happened later? Perhaps. But I know that that small ride with them as they set out on their great Quest gave me a claim on history, gave me responsibilities; in many ways it set in motion everything that happened later. I know that I never faced any of the terrible things they tell stories about now, or saw any of the beauty in amongst the horror. I never met Elves, or fought monsters, or watched the King be crowned, but that small ride made me a part of it all anyway, do you see? I was one of the Travellers, there at the beginning, and I'll never forget that.

And then we were there, at the Brandybuck's gate, although hole would have been closer to the mark. It was delved deep under the Hedge and lined with brick, good solid workmanship, but it was terribly dark in there, so dim I couldn't see through to the other side. We said goodbye, and then I waved to them as they rode on, and watched as they disappeared, swallowed by the dark. And my pony stamped its feet, and I sat there unmoving in the grey light, the Hedge dripping dew in the gloomy morning, until my hands grew cold on the reins. Then I sighed, and I turned back towards Crickhollow, and I rode back alone.

What if I had gone with them? What if I had chosen another path? I often wonder now if things would have been different. But then I remember that I failed, and so if I had travelled with them perhaps I would have failed there too, and that would have been worse than all the rest. So really, I am glad that I chose as I did. Really. I'm glad.

Returning to Crickhollow was... difficult. It was much harder than I thought it would be, coming back to that little house which we had all inhabited for such a short time. I had helped set out all of Frodo's things myself, and Merry and I had strived to make it as homelike as possible for Frodo, so that everything was in its correct place. And yet, nothing was in its correct place. Me least of all.

I struggled into such garments of Frodo's that I thought would fit – chiefly a brightly coloured waistcoat that had already split at the back, and would therefore not mind a little more tearing to ensure its accommodation to my larger frame, and a velvet jacket that had been made too big in the first place, but was in Frodo's favourite brown, and therefore reminded me wholly of him, despite the likelihood that he had never in fact worn it at all. So there I was, a slightly chubbier version of Frodo, my hair darkened a little with soot, a sacrifice to the disguise that I decided was worth the itchiness of my scalp. And then I waited.

Have you ever waited for something in quite the same way? Not knowing what will happen, not quite knowing how long you must wait, not clearly knowing even if what you are waiting for is good or bad? Not even knowing who it is that will come and knock on your door; whether it would be Gandalf so I could warn him, and point him on his way, or beings of a darker stripe – Black Riders with their hissing, and the danger that oozed from them like mist. Pippin's descriptions had been most evocative, I found.

Four days. Four days I waited, dressed in Frodo's clothes, wandering the little smial alone, cooking small meals for myself on the stove, and eating them in solitary splendour at the table in the kitchen where we had all laughed and made merry so joyfully on that last night. I stayed by the windows when I could, just to show myself – or rather, show Frodo – to the outside world, and because there was nothing much else to do. I played endless games of spillikins with the set I found in Frodo's bureau drawer, until I got quite good, I thought. And I worried. Of course I did – there was nothing left to do but worry.

It was on the fourth night that they came. That last day I was very restless, I remember, as though my skin as well as my scalp itched. I felt like I was losing myself somehow, as though I wasn't Fredegar Bolger any more, I was turning into Frodo's ghost, forever doomed to walk the passages of this little smial, which wasn't quite Bag End. It wasn't a very comfortable feeling, and I realise now that I was deathly afraid, and that the fear had been growing on me all day. When I finally heard a noise outside and, peering into the gloom, actually saw something, it came almost as a relief, despite the terror that seized me. At least, I thought, I wouldn't have to wait any longer. I had come to it at last. Or it had come to me.

Of course, you know the rest. I hardly need to explain how I went and stood on the step, and watched the gate open and close, although I couldn't see a thing touch it, only shadows sliding dimly under the trees. How I went in and carefully locked the door, and then silently slipped out of the back and ran for my life, ran as though my very soul depended on it. I didn't even grab a coat, or run for the pony stabled in the shed, I wasn't thinking clearly enough for that. I fled, that's the only word for it, I fled ignominiously – my heart was pounding so hard in my ears it was the only thing I could hear, my breath coming in short gasps, and there were bright spots dancing at the corners of my eyes. I wasn't built for that kind of running, and it hit me hard, I think. I would say I wasn't built for that kind of fear, but that would be unfair. No-one is, after all – I am no different to anyone else. Courage isn't about being unafraid, you see. Courage is about how you face your fear, how you deal with it, how you triumph over it and succeed, despite yourself. Or fail, sometimes. Or fail.

Even when I collapsed panting on the steps of the nearest house that I could find – and I was told later that it was almost a mile away – I had nothing useful to say. I had run almost a mile without slowing once, or even thinking about much of anything except my fear, and the crawling black despair that somehow I had caught from those shadows in the garden. But what could I say? Could I offer warning? Could I explain the danger? No – all I offered was some nonsense about not having got it – the poor hobbits I was babbling to couldn't make head nor tail of it, and no wonder. Although now, as I think back, at least my fear had one tangible benefit – the only one really – my terror meant I couldn't bring myself to mention it directly. The Ring, I mean. But I could still feel their craving for it somehow, I do remember that. I could feel the furious desire of those creatures, that greedy desperate urge for possession that drove them on, that drove them past any need for rest, or even impulse to cruelty. I know that they wouldn't have hurt me through any personal malice, but they would have done it anyway, without thinking, without needing anything more than the desperate maddened wanting that hovered in what was left of their hearts.

So I suppose my failure did have some small advantage, in the end. I hate to think of what might have happened if I had babbled on about the Ring in some more open fashion, although that was the furthest thing from my mind at the time. But even the stupid nonsense I did talk was putting more people in danger, and I didn't think of that, did I? Of course not. Eventually someone got the idea that we were being invaded by Enemies, and roused the countryside with the Horn-call of Buckland, that hadn't been heard sounding in a hundred years, and the alarm began spreading like wildfire. I was lucky that my incoherent cowardice didn't get anyone killed, trying to pit themselves against such evil so woefully unprepared.

By that time however, I was beyond understanding anything. It was as though I was lost in some evil fever dream, and all I could think of was my poor friends, lost in the Old Forest, danger chasing them with empty eyes. I didn't have it, didn't the shadows know that? It was with Frodo. With Frodo. Not with me. And that was all I could think about – saving my own worthless skin. I wanted to tell the creatures that. I wanted to tell them to leave me alone, to chase Frodo instead. I wanted…

Oh, I am so ashamed.

I lay in that fever for a day and a half, I am told, although I remember little about it – just a few shadowy images. Malevolent winged beasts devouring me whole, and great glowing red eyes, and the feeling of being buried alive. It wasn't very comfortable, but it was no more than I deserved. Then when I finally roused from my stupor it was to discover myself thought a hero, in a small way. These strange Buckland types seemed to think that I was quite a brave hobbit – for one of those soft 'uns from Over the River. They showed me the shredded cloak they had found on the steps at Crickhollow – one of Frodo's, of course – and they talked admiringly of the great hoof prints they had found, and how brave it was of me to face them, and then to get away with warning. And I… Well, I am ashamed to say that I didn't set them right. I let them carry on thinking that I had done something worthy of praise, that it was, in fact, me the invaders had been after. I told myself that it was so no-one really questioned the absence of Frodo and the others, but I know it wasn't really that. It was only so that I didn't have to admit how craven I had been.

I heard other rumours later – that I had fought them all single-handedly, all over the house, and that was why my hair was full of soot – I had escaped by climbing up the chimney. That I was secretly incredibly rich and had come to Buckland to live in quiet obscurity, in order to escape all my designing relatives. That I was such a fine figure of a hobbit, I had been forced to hide in Buckland to get away from my countless sweethearts, and their fathers had hired a band of ruffians to bring me home again… Oh, the utter nonsense I heard bandied about, all mixed in with tiny bits of truth! I didn't know how or where to start denying them, so in the end, I didn't bother to try. It was all a bit much, in the end, the truth mixed in with the lies. The failure that I knew tainted all the my stupid fabled deeds…

And that was the end of it really. My involvement with the great Quest. It's not very much to tell, is it? My small task, and how I failed at it. That's what it boils down to anyway – Frodo trusted me, the Conspiracy trusted me, they left me behind to protect the Shire, and I failed. It's as simple as that. In fact, as I think about it, it's worse than that. Frodo left me behind to protect the Shire and _I ran away_. I don't know that there is anything I can ever do to make up for that. I don't think there is. I don't know that I can ever live comfortably with that knowledge, but somehow I must make myself. Life goes on, after all. Even for cowards.

Of course, I know there are other stories about me. Some of them are even true. Yes, I did end up leading one of the biggest bands of rebels during the Troubles, until I was captured with some of my lads up near Scary. It is true that we did keep disrupting the ruffian's supply chains for months before I was caught, and managed to redistribute the food to needy families all over the Shire. And yes, it is true that they tried to make me talk, and give up the real names of all my band and their families, and that I held out and stayed silent, and therefore the rest of my lads managed to stay free. Yes, that is all true. But does it matter? I know what I am worth, you see, here at the heart of me. Such things as I did later to try and salve my guilt, such brave hobbits as followed me – many of them from Buckland and the Marish, in fact, who had listened to the stories – such things don't really matter in the end. Do they? If you gild tin, it remains tin, you see. Dull and grey and worthless, under its cheerful coating. I know that, and I'm not afraid to face it. I know what I really am. And I have to deal with it every single day.


End file.
